He stared down at her. The brown eyes held a flicker of annoyance.
"So he's been selling you the old line, has he? Don't waste your sympathy on him—he tries it on all of us. Dr. Rahmid is the type who is happiest when he's miserable. He's free to pull out whenever he likes."
"Well, you might try at least to understand him."
"Like you do?" His smile was twisted as they stopped outside her door. He let his arm drop, but made no effort to move away. "Do you think Moore would approve of you shining your bluebell eyes on the doctor?"
"Why shouldn't he?" Julie replied, determined not to get ruffled.
"No reason." He leaned a broad arm on the doorway. "But if I had gone to the trouble of getting a girl fixed up in my father's Mediterranean offices and paid for her to stay at the plushiest hotel, I would expect to have some claim on her myself."
"No doubt you would, but as Alan and I are just friends he's not likely to think on those lines, is he?"
"No? I bet he'll be peeved as hell to find you're not in Tripoli when he arrives."
She saw the dark gleam in his eyes and her breath quickened angrily. "You always insist on reading nastiness into everything, don't you?"
"No, but I know Moore."
"And so do I."
He gave her a long look and shrugged, "Either you're charmingly naive or you don't mind."
"Sometimes you're ..." Furious, she raised a hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist with a harsh laugh. "Don't waste your energy. You'll need it for young Moore."
Crimson, she had to suffer her wrist in his grasp and his face mocking above hers, but she managed to say steadily, "I don't suppose his unpopularity out here has anything to do with the fact that Alan is the son of Sir Giles Moore, the chairman of the company ?"
He released her roughly and pushed the door of the bungalow open with a sudden jerk. "Let's wait and see, shall we?"
Julie entered, expecting Clay to leave, but he hung around at the door, staring up at the stars as though allowing tempers to cool. Presently he strolled inside, casting a lazy glance at the feminine touches to the room.
"Are you comfortable here ?"
She nodded. "There's no need to send your man over to keep it clean. It would take no time at all to dust round in the evening."
He shook his head, eyeing with disdain the cluster of desert flowers flowing from a glass on the windowsill.
"You've got enough to do. By the way," he looked up at her, "Steve tells me you're almost clear in the office. You've done a good job."
"I'm glad I could help," she said politely, waiting for him to go.
"You can."
It was a rather obscure reply and she looked to him for enlightenment. He grinned down at his overalls. "Give me time to get cleaned up and we'll have a drink. I want to talk to you." He nodded to the streak of oil along her shoulder which must have rubbed off from his sleeve. "Funny, the smudge on your shirt makes no difference at all. You still look as if you've stepped out of a bandbox."
Julie gazed down with a half smile at her white shirt and linen skirt, and then around the room. "You can hardly call this the rougher side of life."
"It could get rougher."
Amidst the confusion of a wildly beating heart she thought he moved a pace closer. The brown eyes curiously flecked with green met and locked with hers. A slight smile played around the hard mouth, and suddenly an awareness of the tremendous physique and width of shoulder made her catch her breath. She dragged her gaze away to the fitted wardrobe.
"Am I allowed to wear a dress?"
"Why not?" He tossed her a mocking smile. "You're safe with me!"
Later as Julie showered she wondered what it was that Clay wanted to talk to her about. Could it be that he had heard they were about to get a replacement? Was he going to tell her that she would be leaving soon for Tripoli ?
Slipping into a sleeveless blue silk, she knew a strange reluctance to hear those words. She had become accustomed to the desert and its climate, the friendly smiles of the men, and a general feeling of belonging to this village in space. She wasn't ready to leave it yet; not yet.... She gazed across at the lights from Clay's bungalow. The soft muted notes of a languorous tango drifted over from his veranda, probably Radio Rome.
With a touch of lipstick and a final brush at her hair, flaxen at the ends from the sun, Julie stepped out into the night and met Clay almost on her doorstep. His white silk shirt stood out in the dark and the biscuit-coloured slacks held an immaculate crease.
He flicked an appraising glance over her and taking her lightly by the arm led her through his door. Mohammed, the smiling Libyan, was placing a tray of drinks and ice on a small table near french windows. As Clay dismissed him for the night Julie glanced round the room that she hadhardly dared take in during the formal breakfast times.
It was more spacious than the other bungalows, having a long L-shaped room with dark wood and leather furniture. The floor was of marble, patterned in muted tones. At the far end of the room a desk and files had been arranged to serve as an office, and beyond lay a corridor and doors suggesting other rooms.
Clay handed her a drink.
"Sorry, no gin and orange."
So he remembered she had said that was all she ever drunk. She looked at the glass of golden liquid with a bemused smile.
"It wouldn't be Kitty Kola, would it?"
"Would you drink it if it was?"
"Not after I've been warned off so forcefully."
"Good girl. You might survive life abroad after all." He led her through the open french windows to a cushioned chair by the rail of the veranda and took one on the opposite side. After some moments he asked casually,
"What was wrong with modelling?"
Julie sipped the liquid and found it burned her throat a little.
"Nothing was wrong with the job. It was me. I felt.. she shrugged and placed the glass down on a small table at her side, "restricted, if you like. Confined to the world of rich females and their insatiable appetite for something new. It was just .. . not me."
"Most girls go all out for that kind of life." He pushed his chair back on two legs.
"Do they?" she smiled. "Then I suppose I'm not most girls."
"Is this your first time out of England?"
"Apart from a flying visit to Paris, yes."
"And what about your home, your family?"
Julie lay back, the blue eyes thoughtful. "My father works on atomic energy in Scotland. He lives in a cluttered basement which he defies anyone to tidy, and most of the time he forgets where I am."
"And cares less."
"That's not strictly true," she replied, unruffled, "and you of all people can't blame him for being wrapped up in his job."
"But I don't have a small daughter to take care of."
"His small daughter happens to be well able to take care of herself."
"Yes, I can see that."
The slight jibe in his voice and the mocking glance he slanted her way rekindled Julie's temper. She stood up to stare out into the night, saying irritably, "I know what you're thinking—that if I were able to take care of myself I wouldn't have come to Tripoli. No matter what you think of Alan Moore ..." she spun round, "his father and mine have been friends for years. He offered me the job and so I took advantage of it."
"And so did Moore," Clay sneered. "He's got to be careful, has our Alan. He can't afford to smear the family name with much more unfavourable publicity, but out here he's a free agent. I know Moore better than you, and I know he never sticks to one girl for more than a few weeks." His mouth twisted suggestively. "He tires of them quicker than the average male."
Julie swung away from him. "Sometimes I find you insufferable!" She made to march through the french windows, but he was up in a second, grasping her arm.
"And you're too sensitive, child. Sit down and finish your drink." He spoke lightly enough, but there was a warning glint in his eyes. She sat down, murmuring, "Let's hope I can ge
t to be as hardboiled as you some day."
"It wouldn't suit you." Lazily he took out cigarettes and when he had lit Julie's she lay back staring at the stars. Had she done the wrong thing in letting Alan arrange a job for her out here? Had he really paid her hotel fees with a view to "getting to know her better" as they put it these days? She gave a slight shiver. She liked Alan, but she could never imagine him in that light.
"Cold?" Clay asked, giving her a keen look.
Julie shook her head. The desert still held the warmth of the sun, but it would be cooler very soon now. She stared at the yellow flames of the gas jets in the distance.
"Will they ever go out?"
Clay got up to lean over the rail. He nodded, following her gaze.
"These are mere babes compared to the original 'eternal fires'." He saw her questioning look and continued, "In Persia there's a circle of them. They are only two or three feet high now, but about five thousand years ago they must have resembled a fiery furnace. They burn from self- ignited seepages of gas and form a circle a few yards wide."
'"The eternal fires'." Julie nodded thoughtfully. "In Nebuchadnezzar's day, wasn't itf I remember something vaguely from school."
"That's right. They're still a pretty awesome sight. Tourists travel miles out of their way just to stand within the circle. It's possible with not too much discomfort."
"Have you stood inside?"
He shook his head with a slight smile. "There's an oil field a couple of miles away. Some of the tourists used to overflow into the camp."
"You've travelled a great deal, haven't you?" she asked with interest. As he turned to look down at her she saw for a second the reflection of the gas jet flames in his eyes.
"I've been around. Most of these men have been with me on other jobs, including Steve. Which brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about" He drew on his cigarette and threw it over the side.
Here it comes! Julie braced herself for his words, puzzled at the heaviness of her heart. She couldn't actually be feeling pangs at leaving this arrogant oil boss, with whom she had been at constant loggerheads since their first meeting? That would be ridiculous. Clay was going to tell her that a replacement had been found, and her services were no longer required at Guchani.
For this information she should be feeling nothing but pure relief, and yet her eyes held a note of apprehension as she waited for his dismissal.
"Can you cope on your own for a while if I send Steve back to Tripoli ?"
At first Julie thought she must have heard wrong, and then the shock of the unexpected made her jump to her feet to face him. He sighed testily.
"I know it's a damn nuisance. You can't wait to get back to living it up, but Steve's been out here almost six weeks. He won't complain, but it doesn't need an I.Q. of a hundred and sixty to see he's itching to get a break with his wife and those youngsters of his."
"I don't mind helping out for Steve's sake," Julie replied coolly. Why did Clay always see the worst in her ?
"Good." His smile was hard. "You don't have to bother with the technical stuff, just keep the paper work down to the minimum. Steve has a month's leave coming to him, but there will be another man out to take his place shortly."
"Well, if that's all ..." She turned to go. There seemed to be nothing else to say, but Clay took her abruptly by the shoulders and turned her to him.
"And, Julie ..."
That was the first time he had called her by her first name. Her skin tingled at his touch.
"You're doing a good job here, you know."
"It's nice to know you think so."
He held on to her. The brown eyes searched her face.
"You don't mind staying on?"
Julie's heart lurched and she took refuge behind a flippant smile.
"Why should I ? I haven't seen one camel yet, or a dashing sheikh. I'm not in a hurry to return to civilisation until I've seen something of the tourist attractions."
"I suppose not," he said slowly, dropping his hands. "Well, that's no problem. We usually get an invitation to watch a session of dancing and music at the nearest Tuareg camp ... they're a kind of nomad. I don't know about a dashing sheikh. Mafa is seventy-two, but he's a pretty good host. I'll see what can be arranged."
Briskly he took her elbow and led her back to the door of her bungalow. Once inside Julie reached for a woollen cardigan. The air was now bitingly cold, but no colder, she thought dismally, then the impervious Clay Whitman.
The next day Steve and the other men who were due for leave drove out to the airstrip where a company plane would fly them out. Men returning from leave werequickly swallowed up in the oil fields, for as Dr. Rahmid told her, they were having trouble at one of the oil rigs and every last man was needed.
The camp was deserted except for the men who kept it running smoothly for the oil workers. Chefs, waiters, club attendants, all were on hand for weary shift workers who would return eager to shower and change and partake of the country club atmosphere. The oil company had spared no cost in laying on the comforts for those compelled to spend lonely weeks out in the desert.
Julie spent the days working in the office, coping with endless sheets of figures, and scribbled notes, but it was an absorbing task, and she gained immeasurable satisfaction just keeping the desks clear. She dined alone these days, and retired early to bed with a book. She was locking up the accounts office one afternoon, musing on her rather lonely existence, when she almost collided with Dr. Rahmid, battling by with his arms full of packages and bottles. He looked harassed and perspiring.
"I am so sorry to step so close." He grabbed a bottle that threatened to slide through his arm.
"Here, let me help you with those," Julie smiled, edging the more precarious objects into her hands. "Where are you taking them?"
The doctor sent a martyred glance to a jeep standing in the distance.
"The men are so careless," he grumbled as they walked. "I have never seen so many stupid accidents. They use up all my bandages and lotions."
"Why don't you put them in your bag?" Julie asked soothingly. For a doctor he was most unmethodical.
"There is no time. That Whitman man, he is some driver. Always he expects my supplies not to run out, and they do. And then he roars at me like a bull elephant and tells me I should bring more."
Julie had to suppress a smile. That sounded like Clay all right!
The doctor dropped the parcels carelessly on to the front seat of the jeep and breathed a jaded sigh.
"Haven't you got a clinic or a surgery out there to store a good stock in?" Julie wedged the bottles upright between the packages.
The doctor did not answer. He merely stepped into the driving seat and threw up his arms in puzzled anger.
"How am I to get there? I do not even drive."
Julie stared. A doctor who didn't drive?
"But who drove you back from the oil field ?" she asked.
"One of the men who was just finishing a shift."
"Can't you ask one of the others to take you?"
The doctor gripped the wheel stubbornly.
"I will not ask again. I am just a nuisance, always asking to be driven. And they will say ..." he turned his hands in a mock Italian gesture, " 'why don't you ruddee well learn to drive yourself!'"
There was some sense in that, Julie pondered, and after all the desert was spacious and uncluttered. Had he wanted to the doctor could have learnt to drive in a matter of days. She looked at the lock of blue-black hair falling over a dark eyebrow. How on earth had such a man got caught up in the hazards of drilling for oil ?
"I can drive a little," Julie offered, seeing his hand fumble on the gears. "I'm not awfully good, but as this is not the heart of London, you have every chance of arriving in one piece, if you want to risk it?"
The doctor raised his head with a hopeful look and Julie added,
"I could take you there and give you a hand with these. Perhaps we could sort out some extra space which you could s
tock up with medical supplies. That way you wouldn't need to make so many journeys."
Dr. Rahmid moved over, scooping up the parcels on to his knee, and Julie slid in, hoping she could remember all her father had taught her. At her touch the jeep jumped into action and they made rather an erratic track across the sand. She pointed the nose of the bonnet in the direction of the oil field and hoped for the best, which couldn't have been bad, for they arrived safe and laughing in a matter of minutes.
The doctor led her to a small square building on a slight hill. Julie stepped in to find a neat surgery with a desk and chairs, and several cupboards and shelves, most of which were empty.
"Why, Gopal, this is perfect! You've got ample room for everything you need here."
She turned to find the doctor shrugging indifferently.
"It is all right, but the other building is better."
"Other building?"
He took her shoulder and pointed from the doorway to a long low building with a flat-topped roof standing some considerable distance away. It was almost on the edge of the oil field.
"That one is better. There is lots of room, I could have beds. The men grumble when they are not feeling good and there is only a chair to sit on. Also it is much nearer and the men have not so far to come to me."
And you haven't so far to walk to them, Julie thought wryly. She was beginning to think Clay was right. The doctor did seem the hardest man to please. There was room for at least two beds in here, and if he had any heart in his work he could have been organised long ago.
"You do not agree," he said in pained tones. "Come, I will show how well situated is the other hut."
Julie would have preferred not to bother. After all, there was nothing she could do about it, moreover she wasn't at all sure they should be wandering so close to the oil field. The doctor had already marched off, confident that she would follow, and she didn't have the heart to call out a refusal. The distance was farther than it looked and it took all her attention just wading through the loose dusty sand that engulfed each step. As she came nearer she raised her head to see various scenes of activity where oil- spattered men were labouring at the wellheads.
Rose of the Desert Page 3